Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Read online

  "What did you say?" My eyes widen as I look at her. "Did you say they drove here from Louisiana?"

  "Yeah." Tallulah wrinkles her forehead, curiously studying my expression. "At least, that's what Bonnie told me. Why?"

  "Do you know where exactly in Louisiana?" I ask further.

  "I don't know," she responds. "Somewhere near New Orleans I think. You'll have to ask them."

  My eyes dart to the soap booth, and my heart sinks when I see that the soap sisters have already cleared out their tent and gone to leave their statements with the police. Judging by how uneasy Mary Frances was after Gino Milani's body was found, I doubt I'll be seeing them again. Ever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chef Otto paces back and forth on the green as the lot of us prepare to leave. The police have almost finished questioning vendors and unlucky onlookers, and our booth has been given the go-ahead to clear out for the day. With most of our product sold and tons of compliments on Bree's spicy cocoa chip cookies, I think it's fair to say that the academy's reputation isn't suffering too badly after what happened last year. But even with a full pouch of profits and a whole lot of satisfied customers, Chef Otto is still anxious about something.

  Georgina quickly says her good-byes, giving Karl a pat on the back for all his hard work. All the hard work that you were supposed to do. Georgina's food demo—icing a dozen cupcakes—was just about all she did other than ogle Otto.

  "See you Monday," Georgina says without looking at me.

  "Huh?" Karl responds, confused. Georgina forces a half smile, grabs her bag, and struts toward the parking lot without so much as a sweat stain to show for the day.

  "That was aimed at me," I clarify. Karl nods. "Sometimes she makes eye contact, and sometimes she talks at me instead."

  "That's a strange practice." Karl adjusts the rim of his glasses.

  "It's a side effect of the medication," I lie.

  Bree giggles.

  "I wasn't aware that Georgina's frequent breaks were a medical necessity," he responds. "If I had known that I would have been more accommodating."

  Bree giggles again, letting out a loud snort that she tries to cover up with another laugh.

  "It's a joke," Bree blurts out. "There is no medication. Poppy is only joking."

  "Her use of sarcasm baffles and confuses me." Karl grabs his bag and bobs his head as he counts his steps toward the parking lot.

  "Why couldn't we have been partners?" Bree sighs.

  "Then Georgina and Karl would've been partners," I point out. "Can you imagine that?"

  "Yeah." Bree raises her eyebrows. "She'd turn Karl into her little errand boy."

  I collect my things, minus my specialty chef's knife that I can't remember losing. The police are keeping it as evidence. Honestly, after knowing where that blade has been, I don't think I want it back. Even thinking about using it again after a good disinfecting makes me queasy.

  Chef Otto grabs the last of our stuff along with the leftover goods for the day—two boxes of assorted treats. He pauses, watching Bree walk toward the parking lot. Most of the women in our class would die if they had a moment alone with Chef Otto Chimenti.

  I don't see his appeal.

  Yes, he's good-looking, rich, and a mean baker, but something about him feels off. He makes me feel like I did when one of my ex-boyfriends walked back into my life wanting to get back together. Intriguing but dangerous. I've decided to trust my gut more often, and my gut instinct is telling me that successful culinary entrepreneurs don't agree to work as fill-in instructors so easily. There's a page missing out of Otto's book.

  He glances at me—flashing his pearly grin that I've seen one too many times on his latest reality cooking show Bonbon Voyage.

  "Poppy," he says. "Just the girl I need."

  Crap.

  "Chef?" I brush a strand of dark hair aside.

  Otto pauses, waiting for me to say more. I bite my bottom lip. I'm not going to say thank you for an opportunity I know nothing about. Chef Otto looks me up and down like he's surprised that I'm not beaming at the prospect of helping him out.

  "Are you free tomorrow?"

  My heart races. Out of all the women on campus, Chef Otto is taking an interest in me. If I didn't have a target on my back before, one date with him will definitely super glue one to my forehead.

  "Tomorrow?" I reply. "I'll have to check my calendar."

  "Good." He nods, assuming that I've said yes. He glances around the field at the rows of empty tents waving in the warm summer wind. "I'm renting a house just outside of town. Can you come over first thing in the morning?"

  "I haven't said yes yet." I playfully place my hands on my hips.

  "I'll pay you." He lowers his voice, taking a step closer. I take a step back.

  "Are you insane?" I snap. "I'm a pastry student and a good one at that." I cross my arms, my heart still fluttering. "I'm not some lolly you can lick whenever you want."

  "Um, Poppy—"

  "Pay someone else to air your dirty laundry." I go on. "Or…dirty your laundry. However that saying goes."

  "Poppy," Chef Otto says again. "I'm not looking for those types of services." He chuckles. "I have to be in Atlanta tomorrow, and I need someone to come by and take care of Susu."

  "Oh my Madeleines," I mutter. "You have a son? Daughter?"

  "I'd really appreciate it if you keep this little arrangement between us." He takes another step toward me, leaning in close enough for me to smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. "I don't want anyone upsetting her or any students stalking the house. You seem like a girl who can keep a secret."

  "But, Chef," I reply. The butterflies in my stomach have turned into rampant moths. "The only experience I have with kids is the occasional dance class. I'm not the nanny type."

  "That's good to know." Chef Otto chuckles as he pulls out his cell phone. "But how are you with dogs?" He grins, showing me a picture of an amber roan Italian pointer.

  "Oh," I respond.

  "This is Susu. My dog."

  * * *

  Otto's rental house is anything but small. It's a mini version of a plantation-style home with white shutters framing the windows and pecan trees giving a generous amount of shade to the front porch. I park in the driveway—my car threatening to overheat on me after blasting my air conditioner the whole way here. Don't die on me. Just one more semester.

  I get out, wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt. The next best appropriate thing to a bikini. The midday sun beams down on my back, and my arms look red in the sunshine. I ring the doorbell a couple of times, hearing the loud barks coming from inside.

  I have little experience with dogs. Growing up, I begged my parents for one, and they ended up adopting one of the trickiest breeds to train. A Dalmatian as a first-time pet seemed like a good idea until she started doing things like hopping the fence into the neighbor's yard and somehow managing to climb onto the roof of the tool shed. That combined with the not-so-playful biting was enough for my parents to pass her on to a more experienced owner.

  "Poppy." Chef Otto answers the door wearing casual khaki shorts and a polo. "I was beginning to wonder if you would show up at all."

  "I said I would," I respond. I spot Susu at his side and lean down to let her sniff my hand. "Hi there, Susu."

  "She's real friendly," Otto comments. "I promise. She won't be a problem." He heads back inside, leaving the front door open. Susu trots behind him.

  I step inside the spacious entryway. The walls are lemon yellow, and the furniture reminds me of a beach house in the Caribbean—blues and corals. The floors are a dark hardwood, which contrasts with the whitewash of the walls outside. I walk past a grand staircase with white railings and into the kitchen.

  "Nice place." I glance around the living area and French doors off of the kitchen leading to a bright sunroom. It's a lot of house for one man and his pup.

  "It's not really my style, but it works for now." He jots something down on a piece of paper and hands it to m
e. "The garage code and alarm code."

  "Thanks?" The terms of this arrangement are still unclear. I study the numbers, wondering how long Chef Otto plans on gallivanting around Atlanta.

  "It's no trouble," he responds. "I'll just change the codes when I get home."

  "And when might that be?"

  "Late." He answers like it's no big deal. "Maybe tomorrow before classes?"

  "Tomorrow?" I repeat.

  Why did I agree to this again?

  "She'll need a walk and more food and water if I don't get home until the morning." He proceeds to grab his car keys and remove the price tag from a pair of Ray-Bans. He snags a pastry covered in powdered sugar from a dessert plate on the counter. He holds up the plate and looks at me. "Want one?"

  "What are they?" I take one, observing the ribbon-like shape of them. When the pastries sit all together, they look a lot like the funnel cakes I've seen at carnivals. I once shared a strawberry jam one with Evie, my childhood friend from back home in Oregon.

  "Italian angel wings," he answers. "The proper name for them is chiacchiere, but my family has always called them angel wings because of the shape and the powdered sugar. My nonna makes them when I go visit her in Hammonton." There's a tinge of auburn in his hair when the light hits it. He chews on a pastry and focuses back on leaving for the day.

  I take a bite of the crunchy sweet. It tastes like a warm fritter. I nod in approval. It's a dessert that Bree might enjoy trying, if she hasn't made them already. She would probably dust them with cocoa powder.

  "Would it offend the Italians if I said that this tastes similar to a funnel cake?" I ask.

  "Doubt it." Otto is barely even paying attention to me. He kneels down to say good-bye to his furry companion. Her leash is on the table along with a basket of chew toys. I notice an open kennel in the corner.

  "So do I just…put her in her kennel for the night if you're not here?"

  "Go ahead." He chuckles. "She'll just get out of it. The latch is broken, and I keep meaning to replace it. She can open the door as she pleases. Can't you, girl?" He rubs Susu's long, droopy ears before heading toward the garage. I'm not sure what to do next. Stay at the house for a while? Go back to my apartment and leave Susu to entertain herself? What do dogs even do when they're alone?

  "Safe travels to the big city," I say.

  "Victoria and I are going to have a real good time," he mumbles. I follow him into the garage with Susu at my side.

  "You have a girlfriend?" I grin. Half the school would be crushed if they knew.

  Chef Otto flips on the light and quickly jogs to the room's focal point—a bright red Ferrari. My eyes go as wide as powdered donuts. I've never seen one up close, let alone looked inside. I take a few steps toward the car as if in a trance—a fantasy of me with my hands at the wheel and miles of pavement in a blur behind me. Otto looks pleased with my expression.

  "Poppy," he says, gently touching the hood, "meet Victoria, my Rosso Scuderia Ferrari 458 Italia. Isn't she beautiful?"

  "Wow." I let out a short gasp. Victoria is hundreds of thousands of dollars away from my old Honda. I resist the urge to ask him how much a pretty little thing like this set him back. Apparently, not much since he's planning on driving it through the streets of downtown Atlanta. A place where fender benders are as common as adding sugar to your morning java, according to Cole.

  "I know," he responds. "Words can't describe her." He hops in the driver's seat.

  I look down at Susu's solemn expression, and a thought hits me like a baguette to the face.

  I'm supposed to have dinner with Cole tonight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bree is setting the table when I walk into our apartment. It looks the same as it did last year. A boring portrait of tan, beige, and more tan. The only thing that gives the room color is the floral pattern on Bree's apron. She brought some of her treasures from home this time. The cupcake shop that she works at sells vintage aprons. Today Bree is wearing one with bright yellow sunflowers and turquoise ruffles.

  "What is that?" Bree stops, waving a knife and fork in the air.

  "Uh, she has a name. It's Susu." I lightly pat the top of Susu's head, holding tight to her leash. After Otto left for the city, I couldn't bring myself to leave her all alone, though I'm sure she's used to it. It might sound strange, but the way she looked at me made me feel guilty for wanting to bolt so quickly.

  "What kind of name is that?" Bree takes a few steps back like Susu might jump on her at any minute.

  "I don't know?" I admit. "But what does it matter?"

  "Poppy, you can't let her roam free in our apartment. I'm deathly allergic."

  "She won't be a bother," I respond. "She sat quietly in the front seat the whole way here. And she taps you with her paw when she has to go to the bathroom." I smile wide. "Plus, she kinda belongs to Chef Otto, and I agreed to watch her for the day."

  "Nice one." She sighs. "Okay, Susu can come in, but keep her out of the kitchen."

  I slowly lead Susu inside and shut the door before taking off her leash. Bree watches me out of the corner of her eye. She continues setting the table using three place mats as the oven timer beeps. She checks her latest concoction—a dozen cupcakes that give off an incredible aroma.

  "Another experiment?" I ask.

  "A mixture of a carrot cake and Alabama Lane cake that I call…" She pauses, scratching the side of her head. "…Clane cake? No. Larrot cake? No. I'll think of something." Her latest obsession is meshing two foods into one. A new hobby she refers to as Franken-sweets. So far they've turned out well, minus the jam cookies meets Jell-O mishap. Those were a crumby mess.

  "Three place settings?"

  "Cole called." She studies my reaction when she says his name. "He's coming over for Sunday lunch."

  "Oh, right."

  "I still don't get this whole weekly dinner thing between you two," Bree goes on. "I'm not complaining about the pulled pork sandwiches and macaroni and cheese, but if something's going on between you two—"

  "Nothing is going on." I cut her off. "I told you. We made a bet when I was in Paris, and the dinners are his end of the bargain."

  "Uh-huh." Bree removes her cupcakes from the pan, allowing them to cool. "And what was your end of the deal?"

  "I've already upheld my end of the bargain," I answer. "Anyway, I don't know what you're so suspicious about. When we do have dinner, you're here half of the time."

  Cole was the very first southern guy I met on my first day in Georgia. He was the one who walked me through campus and assured me that my first morning of classes would be just fine. I think back to my last phone call with him. I was in Paris, and I was hanging by my last string trying to make the most out of my internship with the world-renowned pâtissier Jean Pierre Gautier. I might as well have been a dishwasher that week because Chef Gautier hardly spoke to me. Cole convinced me to confront him about it in exchange for his cooking. One dinner a week, and they usually end up falling to the weekends. I wouldn't have learned the things I did back in France if it weren't for his encouragement.

  Really, it's me who owes him dinner.

  Cole has always been there for me, and sometimes I wonder why I care so much about his opinion. Then I remember the first time our eyes met, and the butterflies in my stomach I brushed aside. I didn't want to complicate my life before classes even started. But now, my graduation day is in sight.

  Bree moves on to whipping her cream cheese frosting in hopes that it will pair nicely with her blend of carrot cake and traditional Alabama Lane cake. She keeps an eye on Susu who is sitting happily in the living room.

  "We're just friends," I continue, ignoring the spark I feel in my gut when I dare to think about Cole and me as something more. "How many times do I have to say it? We're just friends."

  "You say it every week," Bree responds. "Do keep in mind that I've only asked that question once." She dips a finger in her frosting and tries it. "Do you think this has too much bourbon?"

 
"Oh no." I take a step back. "I'm not touching that stuff ever again. Not after what happened last time."

  "I can't figure out if I should use it in the cake or the frosting. Same thing with the pecans. I put them in the cake this time." She ignores my reference to the first time she introduced me to her longtime pal. Last time I indulged in Bree's bourbon I ended up wandering around campus and seeing ghosts.

  No more ghosts.

  No more splitting headaches during morning classes.

  Bree hands me a sliver of warm cake, and I take a bite. I've managed to put a stop to my gradual weight gain by taking bites of Bree's impromptu desserts rather than eating an entire portion. The butter cake is moist, and I get a subtle taste of sweet carrots in the batter. The chopped pecans give it a nice crunch, and the golden raisins add a tart chewiness to offset all the sugar.

  "All I'm missing is the coconut." Bree spoons a dollop of her bourbon cream cheese buttercream on top of her half and takes another bite. An Alabama Lane Cake is most commonly a vanilla bourbon butter cake with a sweet filling incorporating pecans, raisins, and coconut. "I'll have to start over. I was really hoping to bring a few new Southern flavors back to the cupcake shop."

  "Your boss found pure gold when she hired you," I comment. With the passion Bree has for baking, she's exactly the type of person I would want in my bakery.

  "You're welcome to call and tell her that." Bree shakes her head. "You know I'm kidding, right?" she clarifies. Bree wipes her hands on her vintage apron and grabs a jar of maraschino cherries. "I almost forgot the topper." She pops a cherry in her mouth along with another dollop of her buttercream creation. She flashes a crooked smile.

  "Not good?"

  "It needs more work," she answers. "Maybe I'll try a coconut carrot cake next time, and leave the bourbon for the batter. Yeah, I'll do that."